


your secret is safe with me (if secrets were like seeds)

by Murf1307



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Flowers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Holding Hands, M/M, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Perfume, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Witcher Senses, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23028652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: Geralt would know Jaskier's particular scent anywhere, after twenty years.  But three years after the dragon hunt, he runs into Jaskier again, and something has changed.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 52
Kudos: 1127





	your secret is safe with me (if secrets were like seeds)

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [this](https://imashamedofwhoiamasaperson.tumblr.com/post/611542874746748928/so-weve-all-heard-about-jaskier-not-noticing-that) post by Tumblr user @imashamedofwhoiamasaperson:
> 
> _"so we’ve all heard about jaskier not noticing that geralt has kitty eyes because they’re always round with love when he looks at him, but i have another Hot Take for you: geralt always assumes that jaskier spends a fortune on perfumes and colognes because he always smells flowery and fragrant. it’s constant, somehow even when they’ve been low on money or haven’t been to a major city in ages. little does he know, however, that what he’s smelling isn’t perfume, it’s love. jaskier constantly reeks of it, but geralt’s too much of a colossal dumbass to realize that he’s smelling affection not cologne."_
> 
> I market perfume in my day job, so I found this concept absolutely delightful and decided to write it.

Jaskier always smelled of flowers. The very faint scent of buttercups, floral and poison-sharp, of course, because Jaskier was like that and _would_ wear perfume of the flower he’d named himself after, but other flowers as well -- the distinct smells of roses, jasmine, and gardenias often wafted around the bard, and Geralt was certain the only reason he could bear the complex miasma was that he was used to it.

Maybe it hadn’t been so strong, at first, and he’d acclimated over the years. If he ever thought of it while in Kaer Morhen, he’d have to ask Vesemir.

Either way, the scent was there. Flowers, in whatever perfumes Jaskier used, and they gave him a distinct scent that shifted with his moods -- not that Geralt would ever need to know Jaskier’s mood by scent, as the man was always _extremely_ direct about how he felt about anything, from the state of Geralt’s hair after a hunt to the quality of a sunrise. Still, it was constant, and familiar, and unique.

Often, he could smell Jaskier before he would see him, if they ran into each other in a tavern or on the road, and that was...well, it was sometimes not entirely disagreeable.

_Have you been travelling with Jaskier, lately?_ Yennefer would ask him, sometimes, when they would meet. He always wondered how she could tell. The lilac in her perfume, ironically, was the only flower he’d never smelled in Jaskier’s, and besides, her senses weren’t heightened in the way his were -- she could read a man by his thoughts, but not by his scent.

Either way, he knew Jaskier’s scent better than anyone else’s, even Yennefer’s. With Yenn, he had always mostly smelled with the heat of desire on her, cinnamon and ginger heating the sweet-floral scent of her perfume. He didn’t know how sadness smelled on her, or simple contentment, or the long, slow irritation of days on the road -- all things he could recognize in Jaskier’s scent within seconds, because of the length of their acquaintance and the fact that, when Jaskier was there at all, he was there _constantly_.

Jaskier, unlike Yennefer, was not the type to vanish.

Until, of course, the day he did.

That wasn’t really a _vanishing_ , though. That was Geralt lashing out, as, once again, and at that time, likely for the _last_ time, the scent of lilac and gooseberries lingered, and there was nothing he could do.

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!_

He’d said it, and, in the heat of his anger, he’d meant it. 

Jaskier’s scent went sour, the florals interlacing with the spoiled milk of sudden pain, but it, for once, didn’t show on his face. _See you around, Geralt_ , he’d said, and walked away.

That was three years ago.

Nilfgaard continues to encroach from the south, barely held at bay by the unity being shown by the Northern Kingdoms. Yennefer has taken in Ciri for the magical aspects of her training, with Vesemir teaching her some of the old Witcher ways in Kaer Morhen. Geralt does what he can, as Nilfgaard breeds new monsters even as their mages grow more monstrous in their own right.

His priority is keeping Ciri safe, yes, but also doing his part to keep the days and weeks turning as she grows into her strengths, so she can meet her destiny.

Kaer Morhen is more home than ever, now, though, with Yennefer and Ciri mainly dwelling in its halls. Things are...complicated, still, with Yennefer, and they always will be, but he knows how much she loves Ciri, and he is grateful for the fact that he could bring them together.

But some days, on the road, he wonders which tavern he’ll walk into, and smell that familiar floral bouquet again.

With the urgency of the year Nilfgaard took Cintra somewhat faded, he has more time to think. And alone on the road, he has little to think about _besides_ the one person left that he...yes, he _wants_ to see.

It’s something he’s had to come to terms with, missing Jaskier. _The last thing I need is someone needing me_ , he’d said, once.

But Jaskier...Jaskier had never _needed_ him. Somehow, the bard managed fine enough without him, though he was constantly getting into trouble. Geralt had never _really_ worried that, during times they were apart, Jaskier would get in over his head.

And having Jaskier on the road with him had given him something he had never anticipated: companionship without expectation.

Women in brothels expected coin; villagers expected him to kill monsters if he wanted them to even _tolerate_ his presence, much less pay him a kindness in interaction. Lovers expected either fidelity or constant passion.

Jaskier just...travelled with him. Singing, making a nuisance of himself, and smelling of flowers.

Geralt liked that companionship, as much as he’d spent years trying to deny it. He liked that Jaskier only ever seemed to want to be _present._ He wanted the time spent travelling together, wanted to be on the front lines of Geralt’s day-to-day, for his writing. He only seemed to want the things Geralt could give without pain.

But three years have passed since Geralt last smelled the buttercups, the roses, the jasmine, playing over musk and sweat and honey.

And he wonders, as he travels, if he’ll ever smell it again.

* * *

In a tavern toward the southern border of Temeria, Geralt smells dandelions and poison as he speaks to the innkeeper to get a room for the night. It’s an unpleasant scent, but he’s been in taverns that smelled far worse, so he’ll bear it. 

Lute music filters over from one corner of the bar, out of Geralt’s field of vision, and the memory of Jaskier’s playing sparks an ache in him.

He doesn’t look until he’s sat down in the corner of the bar, settling in for another long, lonely night.

But when he does turn, his eyes widen briefly, as a lead weight drops into his guts.

_Jaskier._

Jaskier is the bard in the opposite corner of the tavern, somehow.

Geralt inhales, because something is _wrong_ , the _smell_ is wrong; where are the rest of the flowers? He realizes, soon, that he _is_ still smelling buttercups, faintly, the poison much more apparent now than it ever was.

Jaskier doesn’t look at him, and Geralt finds himself deeply unsettled.

The barmaid brings him an ale that smells of hops and, frankly, cat piss, but he drinks nearly half of it in one pull, trying to clear this new scent from his nose.

But when he puts the tankard down, there it is again. Buttercups, and dandelion greens, and the salt-musk of sadness.

He’s transfixed, staring at Jaskier, who is looking down at his lute. Jaskier’s hair has gotten longer, and he’s wearing a _very_ stupid hat with a feather tucked in the band, and he looks...he looks _tired._

Geralt doesn’t know what to do. It’s _definitely_ Jaskier -- a doppler would just smell like _nothing_ , not smell _different_ \-- but something has gone very wrong.

Why does he smell so different?

He watches, and listens, and Jaskier plays. It’s late, past the point in the night where drinking songs are sung, and the song turns to something too familiar.

_The call of the White Wolf is loudest at the dawn._  
_The call of a stone heart is broken and alone._

Jaskier’s voice is like a dirge, and Geralt _aches._ As the song progresses, the scent on the air -- the part _identifiably_ Jaskier -- grows sickly-sweet, candied apricots and yet more poison, and something else Geralt can’t identify specifically.

He smells like _pain._

He smells like how Geralt felt on the mountain. 

Geralt swallows and looks down at the weathered table where he sits, turning that realization over in his head.

Jaskier smells like heartbreak, and Geralt doesn’t know why. It could be anything, but it intensifies throughout the song Geralt _knows_ is about him, and that...that does imply some things, doesn’t it?

When he looks up again, the song is ending, and his eyes meet Jaskier’s across the tavern.

Jaskier looks away, then smiles to the front row of his audience, saying something about having finished for the evening, and that he appreciates their contributions and their listening ears.

Then, he makes for the stairs. Geralt’s eyes can’t help but follow him.

Despite having paid for a room, Geralt stays precisely where he is for the rest of the night.

* * *

In the early morning, Jaskier comes down the stairs again, and Geralt slips out of the light meditative trance he’s held for the last four hours.

Jaskier is packed to leave, and stops short when he sees Geralt still there, sitting like a graven image of himself in the corner.

Geralt stands.

Jaskier’s scent, still hurt, still missing almost all the flowers, turns sharp with fear. That cuts Geralt almost more than anything else: Jaskier _afraid_ of him.

He hasn’t wanted that in twenty years, at least. 

He doesn’t want Jaskier to be afraid of him now, either, and he doesn’t know how to fix this, but he moves, carefully, to get between Jaskier and the door.

“Jaskier,” he says, uncertain as to what he can say.

Jaskier’s expression shutters. “Witcher.”

That stings, as the meaning is clear. But Geralt doesn’t flinch from it. It’s been three years, and things ended to badly on the mountain; in some ways, he deserves the ice in Jaskier’s tone, the burst of mint that joins his scent.

He made a mistake, and didn’t correct it.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt tries, because he is, and he wants...he wants to know what Jaskier wants, if Jaskier wants anything from him anymore.

_Well, maybe someone will want you_ , Jaskier said to him once.

And it smells like Jaskier once wanted him, and that twists inside Geralt like a snake around his lungs, because he doesn’t smell that way anymore.

“No you’re not,” Jaskier says, too-calm. “You’ve never been sorry for anything, where I was concerned.”

Geralt takes a careful step forward. “I’m sorry for what I said on the mountain. It was the wrong thing to say. And I think...I think I hurt you, badly, in saying it.”

“I’m surprised you noticed,” Jaskier says, dryly. 

“You smell different.” Geralt takes another breath, gets a lungful of air that smells like hurt and buttercups. “Did you -- did you change perfumes?”

Jaskier frowns. “I don’t wear perfume, Geralt, I’ve never worn perfume. What are you talking about?”

And with that, it all falls terribly into place.

“You always...you always smelled like flowers, before. Like roses, and buttercups, and jasmine. Different kinds of flowers. But always...always flowers, alongside anything else.” Geralt swallows again. “You don’t smell like flowers anymore.”

He hopes that this makes it clear enough.

Jaskier flushes, eyebrows drawing in and down. “And what, exactly, do I smell like now?”

Geralt doesn’t want to answer that, but he will, because Jaskier is asking. “Dandelion stems, the poison in buttercups, mint, and salt.” He takes another breath. “You smell like pain. But not...not physical pain. I know what that used to smell like, on you.”

“How long have you known?”

“I didn’t...I didn’t realize, until last night. Fuck, Jaskier, you’ve always smelled the same, and --”

_Jaskier has always loved him._

Until now, anyway.

Jaskier swallows. “Well. That’s certainly humiliating enough for both of us, isn’t it?”

“I miss you.” Geralt doesn’t know what else to say. “I kept thinking, on the road, about finding you, of walking into a tavern and smelling that scent, or having it come to me on the road itself, and you’d be soon after it.”

Jaskier blinks rapidly, swallowing. “I...I think I need to sit down,” he says, and moves to the nearest chair. 

“Can I stay?” Geralt will leave, if Jaskier tells him to. 

Geralt is already tired, so tired, of hurting him.

“Yes,” Jaskier says, and buries his face in his hands, rubbing at his temples. “Fuck, Geralt, that’s a hell of a thing to tell someone.”

_I miss you, I miss the way you felt about me, even if I didn’t know it then._

The loss of it, of Jaskier’s love, has hollowed out his chest and stolen his tongue, so he just nods.

“So, what, you just thought...you just thought it was _perfume?_ ” Jaskier asks, sounding almost half-hysterical, running a hand back through his hair. “All these years, you could smell it, and you thought I just went heavy on the _perfume?_ ”

Geralt nods. “It...it seemed like something you’d do.” 

“Fair enough point, I suppose.” Jaskier shakes his head. “But still, you -- you _did_ send me away, Geralt. Told me it’d be the one blessing life could give you.”

“I know.” Geralt swallows. “I fucked up.”

Jaskier nods. “I’d say you did,” he says, and there’s the ghost of a smile hanging on the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been trying to move on. Played six months in the Cintran court before everything that happened there, did a year lecturing at Oxenfurt, went down to the coast for a while, those sorts of things.”

“But you’re on the road again,” Geralt observes.

“Yes. I...I suppose I’m just not built for a sedentary life.” Jaskier looks away. “I should probably go, anway.”

Geralt takes another breath. “I’d...if it would please you, I would...I would like it if we left together.” There’s probably a contract, but right now, he doesn’t care. He’s still trying to process the realizations of the last eight hours, and how they change the memories of the last twenty-five years of his life.

Jaskier closes his eyes. “I don’t want pity, Geralt. I don’t need you to do anything for me.”

“It’s not pity.” He swallows. “I want...I want things. And I want...I want to give you what you want, this time.”

He’s not good at this, not good at words, but he aches for every night they’d shared a bedroll to keep the cold out, for the warmth in his chest when Jaskier would smile at him, the gentle way Jaskier would touch him when he was injured, and the way he in turn would tend to Jaskier’s wounds when necessary.

It’s a lot, realizing that he’s been in love with Jaskier for years, that the things Jaskier brought into his life are things he’s nearly desperate to keep. 

Jaskier looks at him, and his eyes are shiny with tears. “I thought you didn’t want anything,” he points out, and yes, Geralt had told him that, once, but it had been a lie Geralt had wanted to believe so badly that he almost really did.

“I didn’t want to want things.” Because wanting will only ever disappoint you, in the end. Wanting was always the root of his hurt.

“What about Yennefer?” Jaskier asks, but Geralt can smell it, something soapy slipping into Jaskier’s scent, some of the mint fading away; he’s getting through to Jaskier.

Geralt shrugs. “I haven’t been with her in years. She’s teaching Ciri. They’re very close.”

Jaskier chuckles a little wetly. “Oh, I’m glad she’s okay. Ciri, I mean.”

“You know her?” The question is soft.

“Well, I was of the opinion that _one_ of us had to,” Jaskier says, his tone rueful. “And her mother always loved my singing, so...it was never a hardship to visit for a while.” 

Geralt nods. “And if...if you wanted to, I’m sure she’d love to hear you sing again.”

Another ghost of a smile. “Are you really using a child’s fondness for me to try and convince me to come back to you?”

Geralt flushes. “Not on purpose. But...is it working?”

Jaskier makes out a noise that is half a laugh and half a sob, wiping the corners of his eyes. “You’re making it very hard to say no, even though I should.”

“Why should you say no?” Geralt desperately hopes he won’t.

“Because it hurt, near the end.” Jaskier exhales. “When you were with Yennefer. It was one thing, when you were just sleeping with women in order to get yourself off. I could handle that just fine. But you fell in love with her, and that hurt.”

Geralt swallows. “I’m not with her anymore.”

“But do you still love her?”

“Not in that way. Not anymore.” He takes a breath. “We’ve become...friends. Ciri adores her. But I don’t love her in the way I did that day.”

Jaskier nods, considering. “And now you want me?”

Geralt nods, too. “If you’ll have me.”

“You are _infuriating_ , sometimes,” Jaskier says. “I’ve known you for twenty-five years, and this is the very first time I’ve even had a _hint_ that you might be interested.”

That makes Geralt flush with embarrassment. “Does it make it better or worse that it took me twenty-five years to figure out that I was?”

An actual laugh escapes Jaskier then. “Melitele’s eyes, Geralt.” A thread of roses enters Jaskier’s scent. “You’re very lucky you’re so easy to love.”

Hope floods Geralt’s chest. “Then, will you…?”

“Yes.” Jaskier nods. “But I -- I can’t feel like I’m just trailing after you anymore. I need you to put some effort in, alright?”

Geralt nods. Now that he knows, he can actually do what needs to be done. He’s not making any assumptions anymore. “Anything you need.”

“Thank you.” The ghost of a smile solidifies on Jaskier’s mouth, lights his blue eyes just enough.

Geralt doesn’t know precisely what to do, now, so he reaches, carefully, to place his hand on top of Jaskier’s. “I should be thanking you, though. For giving me a chance.”

Jaskier turns his hand over and holds Geralt’s, gently, that soft smile saying all that needs be said, the dandelions softening and the aching scent of sadness receding. “You’re welcome.”

They sit like that for a long moment, looking at each other.

Geralt wonders what Jaskier sees in him, why he’d take him back, but he supposes those are questions he’ll have to ask.

But, well, he’ll be asking them on the road, with the scent of flowers in his nose.

And he’s never been so grateful for that.


End file.
